


cause you're here (and you're all mine)

by kissmeinnewyork



Series: our choice [5]
Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Romance, a bit smutty i guess, i hate them but also love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 21:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmeinnewyork/pseuds/kissmeinnewyork
Summary: Julia thinks it'll take five minutes before the Prime Minister gets suspicious. David bets three. (david, julia and shagging in an expensive restaurant bathroom.)





	cause you're here (and you're all mine)

**Author's Note:**

> well this is the first time ive posted since the finale and we're not going to talk about it
> 
> here u go
> 
> julia montague is alive ok
> 
> (comments + kudos appreciated)

“Well, this is going to be an insufferable evening.”

David snorts a laugh at Julia’s completely valid observation because, frankly, he’s spent the last few days thinking the exact same thing. She’d dropped the prospect of having dinner with the newly anointed PM shorn of warning and it was apparently without question that he was to suffer through the experience with her. _It’s important to keep the relationship amiable,_ Julia had said, _even if I’d rather shoot myself in the head. And you’re quite good at preventing me from dying._

It’s not a secret that neither of them have that many friends, and the friends that David does have are far from the kind of people who hang at illustrious high-town restaurants in central London with Michelin stars. He drinks beer in pubs and sometimes orders a pizza if he’s feeling particularly extravagant. But that—that’s all before Julia. And while Julia appreciates pyjamas and television and lazy evening sex on the couch, the people she works with decidedly do _not._

He’s spending the evening at some exclusive lounge with his Home Secretary girlfriend and the new Prime Minister and his wife, drinking wine that’s worth twice his monthly wage and eating stuff that’s probably written on the menu in French. But he looks across at the woman sat next to him in a red dress he’d prefer tossed on their bedroom floor and thinks—well, maybe he’ll sacrifice this evening for her.

“If we drink enough surely it’ll cancel everything out,” he says, smirking, and Julia throws him a look that doesn’t directly disagree with him. “Or maybe we should just get the Prime Minister drunk. Might solve all our problems.”

“I wish,” Julia mutters, scrolling through her mobile phone. The white light illuminates her cheekbones in the semi-black of the car, strobing and ethereal. “Had the pleasure of a lunch meeting a couple of weeks ago. The man has been on the wagon for _fifteen years.”_

“A politician that doesn’t drink like a borderline alcoholic? I find that extremely hard to believe.”

“Apparently we don’t all down a bottle of wine before bed,” Julia teases, raising an eyebrow. “But who knows? Maybe he has a secret addiction to prescription medication to get himself to sleep each night.”

“Only logical explanation.”

Julia hums, shoving her phone back into her handbag. It strikes him that she actually looks a little nervous, for once, frantically checking her texts every five minutes like she needs something to do with her hands. She’s usually so effortlessly cool it’s irritating, waltzing from television appearances to cabinet meetings with barely a hair out of place, not even rattled when Andrew fucking Marr asks her questions that would send any other politician into a frenzied panic. As her fingers dart for the clasp for the millionth time he reaches across and clutches them in his own, rubs his thumb across the back of her hand.

“I’m not nervous,” she tries (and fails) to convince him, and he’s long since discovered it’s safer to let her think that than intervene. “There’s just things I’d rather be doing.”

“But when your boss asks you to dinner you can’t really say no.”

“I could,” Julia muses with a sceptical smile, “I’m not afraid to say no to things, David. I just—I feel like this man holds a lot of cards over me, and I don’t like it.”

“He _is_ the Prime Minister, love. He holds a lot of cards over us all.”

Julia realises that he isn’t wrong and her shoulder relax a little, her hand gently squeezing his back. It’s about time she stopped obsessing over power and trying to seize it. It’s okay for her not to be the ultimate authority—it’s probably good for her, actually, the hell that’s been the last few months and the recovery from it, to take a step back. Settle back into the job she’d almost left by proxy of being _dead._ After the exit of the last PM and the snap election that followed it, the state of British politics has been far from stable. David thinks— _knows_ —that from her position as Home Secretary she can do some good _without_ being the leader. Maybe one day. Just not now, not yet.

(Truthfully, he wants just a bit more time with her without all that. It’s only a matter of time before Julia Montague becomes Prime Minister. It’s something he knew from the moment they met. But not yet. Not yet.)

“I know,” utters Julia softly, “And I don’t want his job. Really. But after the last PM let me down so catastrophically I’m finding it very difficult to fully trust anyone else in his place.”

It’s understandable, but the government are not going to make the same mistakes again. Hopefully. He leans across the leather seat and kisses her, hands splayed across her cheeks, the whirring of the motor vibrating through her skeleton. She kisses him back with the same gentle vigour, only pausing when the car begins to slow to a halt.

“We’ve arrived, ma’am,” the driver says, looking at them pointedly through the rear-view mirror. “Sir.”

Julia smirks, waiting for him to walk round the car and open the door. “Very good, Arnold.”

David let’s himself out, allowing a look over at Julia as she steps out into the basement car-park, heels clicking against the concrete. She tugs her leather jacket a little tighter round her shoulders and glances back over at him. Her red lips purse.

“Seen something you like, David?”

He knows better than to not play her at her own game. He grins, almost laughing, offering out his arm. She takes it generously. “Maybe.”

“Ah. Very coy,” Julia replies, as they walk out from the darkness of the car-park into the warm, artificial light of London street-lamps, the sky hazy with muted orange. Her breath hovers in the freezing cold air. As does his. There’s something oddly intimate about it. “You’ll go far.”

“I’ll go wherever you go,” he says, and he absolutely, truly means it.

-x-

Almost every assumption David made about the PM’s chosen evening haunt is achingly correct, from the extortionate wine prices and the _fruits de mer_ on the specials board. He widens his eyes at Julia in the foyer and she slaps him softly on the arm, a silent plea to _just fucking take it._

The waiter who greets them at the door recognises Julia immediately so they’re both guided through tables of formally dressed, pearl-adorned diners to a private room through the back, which is just as opulently decorated as the rest of the place. A chandelier looms from the elaborately sculpted ceiling above, droplets of crystal hanging in the air like suspended autumn rainfall. A lone table with four velvet encased chairs sits solitarily in the middle while two more comfortable chaise lounges lay off to the side, and it’s there where David’s eyes first settle on the Prime Minister and his wife.

“Julia!” he says with some enthusiasm and a warm smile, arms held out. “How lovely to see you.”

Julia accepts the embrace, allowing a kiss on her cheek. “Tony. Likewise.”

Pleasantries are exchanged quickly yet formally, David shaking the Prime Minister’s hand after Julia introduces him as _her partner_ and he insists that he call him Tony because they’re not in the Commons now, thank goodness. His wife, Amanda, is a quiet yet well put-together woman, who smiles graciously when David kisses her on the cheek and settles back onto the chaise lounge.

Every so often a couple of waiters positioned by the door offer them wine, which both the PM and his wife refuse, but Julia and David have never been known to say no to a glass of red. After all, as time drags on, the warm certainity of alcohol is the only thing getting him through hours of inane small talk and politics he knows better than to offer an opinion on.

(Especially considering, well. Other than the fact he’s the Home Secretary’s partner, he’s not a huge fan of their party and what it stands for. Oh, well. The things you do for love.)

“So what do you do, Amanda?” David asks when the mains arrive—coq au vin, he thinks, but who the fuck knows—and both Julia and Tony are off down the garden path on the subject of budget cuts and foreign policy. Amanda’s blue eyes widen with surprise, like it’s not something she’s asked often.

“Oh! Well,” Amanda says, smoothing the napkin on her lap, “At the moment I just support Tony, you know, and look after the kids. But I used to be a solicitor before everything with Tony’s career kicked off.”

David’s absorbed enough information from Julia and the newspapers to know surface stuff about this already. He knows about their kids—they have two, like he does, a boy and a girl—but it’s nice to hear Amanda actually talk than hide behind her powerful husband. “Is that something you’d like to go back to?”

Amanda titters a laugh, scooping up potato on her plate. “I don’t think so, the kids are my top priority now. That and making sure Tony has everything he needs. He’s just so busy.”

(Well, _that_ he can empathise with.)

“What about you, David?” Amanda asks, with a hint of curiosity, “Obviously, I’ve read—I _know,_ about…”

“All fine,” David interrupts before she digs up any scandal at the dinner table. Amanda gets the hint, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Everything’s fine.”

As their conversation lulls he can feel Julia’s eyes hovering over him, like she’s checking up on him. He smiles back, his hand finding her knee under the table, fingers massaging the fabric of her dress. Her hand rests on top of his because—everything is fine. Sometimes he’s just grateful to be her date to these terribly awkward dinners, because a few hours of agonising socialisation with boring people is worth it when she’s _right there._

Tony then asks him how he’s getting on with counter-terrorism, and at least it’s a subject he’s got some sort of authority over.

-x-

Dessert plates are taken away and instead of leaving, it’s somehow back to drinks, and by this point David’s had at least five glasses of wine and Julia just as many. Once they leave the table, she makes an excuse to go to the bathroom, so David quietly sits in the company of the most powerful couple in the England.

That’s—that’s until his phone rings. Tony looks a little bemused, but he keeps his phone on for work reasons, so when he looks on the screen and reads _Lavender_ as the caller ID he’s more than a little puzzled. He apologises, sceptically, before stepping out the room.

“Julia? What are you--?”

_“I say we’ve got five minutes max before they start to get suspicious.”_

“Uh—yeah, what?”

“ _Oh, for fuck’s sake, David,”_ Julia hisses in a tone he’s not unfamiliar with, _“Come to the bathroom. Now. Because I know you need this as much as I do.”_

She hangs up and it’s not as if he needs to be asked twice. He throws a smile at the waiter standing at the door before he traipses down the corridor, banging his fist against the wood-panelled door of the ladies bathroom. A second later it flies open and Julia grabs his shoulders, hauling him into the room and bolting the door expertly with her fist. She kisses him energetically against the door, not unreminiscent of an incident about a year prior, and by this point kissing Julia Montague back comes more naturally than a kneejerk reflex.

“It’ll take less than five minutes for them to get suspicious,” David says between gasps, hoisting up Julia’s dress. “I’d say three. Maybe even two.”

Julia pulls him over to the sink and she jumps up onto the edge, wrapping her legs round his middle. Her long fingers quickly unloop the hook on his belt, grinning as his trousers fall to the floor. “We better be quick, then.”

“I’ve smudged lipstick across your face.”

“I don’t care,” Julia breathes, head falling backwards as she feels him inside her, “Tony was two years ahead of me at university and I know a lot more about him than he thinks, so he can cope with me fucking my boyfriend in the toilets of this incredibly expensive restaurant for a bit.”

“You got dirt on him, then?” David says, kissing her neck, “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I’ve got dirt on everyone. You never know when you might need it.”

“Even me?”

“Of course I’ve got some on you, David,” she says, her fingernails digging into his shoulder, “You’re positively _filthy._ ”

“Yeah? How filthy we talking?”

“Now that would be telling,” Julia responds diffidently, “But I might let you in on some of it when we get home. If you’re especially nice to me.”

David laughs loudly, kissing her messily on the lips. Their sighs begin to subside and for a moment, they stand still, letting their breaths synchronise. His hands cling onto her hips. “I’m always nice to you.”

Julia pauses for a second. Let’s her hand skims his face, smiling fondly. “You are, aren’t you?”

-x-

David returns to the lounge exactly three minutes later, hastily fastening a button he’s missed as the door closes. He makes an excuse about it being a work call before falling back onto the sofa, sipping the wine. If the PM and his wife suspect anything they don’t mention it, and it’s less than a minute before Julia sinks into the sofa beside him once again, lipstick perfectly reapplied.

“So, Tony,” Julia starts, reaching across for her glass, “What’s your opinion on the current funding for nationwide sexual health services?”

(Oh, fucking hell, this woman is going to be the _death_ of him. For real, this time.)


End file.
